


Epilogue

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [17]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26053621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: To be read at the end of my 'Live a Lie' series. Otherwise I've no idea if it'll make any sense.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Live a lie [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410712
Comments: 32
Kudos: 78





	Epilogue

**CURSED**

You were the gift I never asked for,

The storm that broke the calm

An ice-eyed little gypsy,

A heathen with a psalm.

The fire in my belly and 

The rum I didn’t drink

My courage at the racetrack, 

My armour’s hidden chink.

The gold within the gravel

The shadow of the moon,

A fleeting glint of sunlight

on a smog-filled afternoon.

The rainbow on the petrol,

The fear before the fight

The image that consoled me

in the hidden depths of night.

But no matter where I look 

you’re now the cloud inside my eye;

The scar upon my face,

The bitter morphine high.

When the tide has just receded,

you’re the foam upon the shore;

When the room’s been freshly swept,

you’re the sand upon the floor.

You’re the fox that bares its teeth

before it slowly slinks away;

The tantalising bite before

I taste the fruit’s decay.

When I walk a silent towpath 

you’re the stone inside my shoe,

In an almost finished crossword

you’re the one unanswered clue.

When the sun has baked the pavements,

you’re the tar stuck to my sole;

When I stare into the honeycomb 

You’re every fuckin’ hole.

You’re a curse.

Perverse.

A pain that gets worse.

A thorn in my side,

a splinter of steel,

A reopened wound 

whenever I heal.

A burst stitch,

A constant itch,

My eyelid’s now relentless twitch 

The ticking clock at three am

The carbon spot within the gem

A blackened sky

An untold lie

A blast of cold in mid-July

The fire’s ashes every morn,

the empty hours before the dawn.

Viking, Dogger, German Bight,

a sudden squall, a ball of spite, 

The lice that live within the seams

of every soldier’s darkest dreams,

The casing when the bullet’s spent, 

A gnawing pain that won’t relent

The crow upon the mantlepiece

the safety catch that won't release, 

The deer that stands and stares too long

A screeching gull 

a banging gong

The skylark’s sentimental song

You’re EVERYTHING that's ever wrong!

Yet in my dreams I hear you

like the echo of a bell;

the sound that won’t be quietened

until I rest in hell.


End file.
